


mount everest

by melforbes



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: in which a slow burn burns me out so i make them do it elsewhere instead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-16 22:29:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21278774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melforbes/pseuds/melforbes
Summary: he impulsively takes her to venice





	mount everest

When she met him outside of the apartment building in Florence, bracing himself against a red 1958 Lancia Aurelia, she thought first of black-and-white movies, the hero sunglassed as he leaned against a fancy car and beckoned her forward, the heroine bouncing in her little kitten heels and making the hem of her dress catch in the wind. Then, she thought of how common knowledge told her that red cars were noticed by police more than any other color, but in those days she tended to gloss over such knowledge with ease. It was better for all, she knew, if she gave in to the pleasure rather than pushing back against it, denying it, taking his hand and leading him past the doorman and into the gold-plated elevator, insisting that they go home. No, she had false identification, and the authorities would only be seeking them out in the shady corners of Baltimore, not on the highways of Italy, and Hannibal had already packed her suitcase, and though with any other man she would’ve been insulted by the action, he’d packed for her once already and been thorough in ways she couldn’t have predicted - the comfortable dress that she loved but thought was unflattering, a wireless silk brassiere, each of her skin creams and serums sectioned into her specific cases for night and day, the silk scarf and Chanel clips she wore whenever she drove - so she looked down at her suitcase wedged into the car and yearned to open the case, see how ornately he had folded her clothes this time.

And he drove recklessly on the highway, passing on the inside and reaching over for her hand in the process, wind whipping against her clipped-down scarf, and she would close her eyes as he laughed at all of this, at speeding on the A13 and at getting away with everything and at having her alongside him, impulsive decision, she would’ve scolded a younger version of herself for it, but now, she would close her eyes and feel a serene smile coming to her lips, wild and free, dinner together every night. He was taking her to Venice for a few days, and she didn’t ask why because she didn’t care to know why anymore. If he wanted her help, he would ask, so she let him do his outside bidding alone, then let him whisk her away in the aftermath. For once in her life, she wasn’t overthinking anymore. For once in her life, she was free.

And she didn’t know whose apartment they were unlocking in Venice, but the place was fully furnished, the pieces ornate and vintage, polished wood, goldleaf ceiling patterns and gilded fireplace, a long dining table and a king-sized canopy bed with pure white linens and a walk-in shower big enough to comfortably fit two bodies. When she looked down from the window in the kitchen, she could see an exclusive restaurant right on the canal, and the bedroom had a balcony with two chairs overlooking the port. Though she’d traveled to Italy plenty of times on her own, and though she’d waded in azure seas each time, she looked down from the balcony and wondered, _how could water possibly be so blue?_ But she wasn’t left to wonder long, for he took her hand and asked if they could walk through the city before their dinner reservation, if she would like to take a closer look. So he hadn’t done anything too brash, then. She wondered what cuts they now had in their freezer.

And he swept her through the streets of Venice while she stepped in between cobblestones, trying not to catch the heels of her shoes. Not kitten heels, she stopped seeing their life together as a film because it was too raw, the air around them too crisp, the hanging laundry over the streets and the scent of the sea too vivacious to be captured on screen; she was dressed for dinner, the Bardot neckline of her top revealing her highlighted collarbones and muscular shoulders, her skirt tight but comfortable, an outfit she hadn’t picked out but one she was content to see the city in, content to sit across from him at a restaurant in, sharing appetizers and letting him refill her glass with wine. But the heels, he’d made a mistake with the heels, or maybe she’d made the mistake to bring them here, or even to purchase them originally; though they were Ferragamo, the patent leather rubbed against her ankles and ached at her arch, and if there was anything that could ruin her mood, it was looking idiotic as she tried to balance in a pair of expensive shoes. She wasn’t that kind of woman, and as he held her left hand, as she dangled her handbag over her right elbow, she tried to step just with her toes, keeping her heels too high to ensure that she wouldn’t be snagged on the cobblestones.

And of course he noticed, so he ducked them toward the gondolas, insisted on a ride, spoke in Italian to the gondolier and offered the man a large tip in return for something she couldn’t hear. He helped her into the boat, taking her hand and gently seating her alongside him, and as always, he was the one to mind her handbag while they relaxed together outside of the home, taking it from her as soon as she sat down. When she looked down at the water, she wondered what salts exactly turned it this color, a strange and un-American shade of blue, something the movies would have rendered in fantastical technicolor in the old days. She imagined him taking her to some private lake, the kind of place on a large property with a big historical mansion on top of a little hill, the lake on the property a place where he would row her across water in this exact shade of blue, and she would dip her hand in and trail a ripple as they moved. Eventually, he would tire, and he would sit alongside her, maybe lie with her in the boat as they watched clouds pass above, birds chirping around them, spring breeze, her imaginings of them together were always of the spring. Would winter ever come? She thought of them together in the apartment in Florence, the fire burning, a Hot Toddy in her hands while she lounged on the couch and listened to him play Scriabin on the piano. She hoped they would last until winter.

And he broke her from her thoughts when he rested his jacket over her lap; she flinched at the contact, then looked to him with disgrace - why would he have done that? But he didn’t bother explaining himself, instead snaked his hand beneath the jacket, two fingers slipping underneath the waist of her skirt. If he wanted to go any further, he would need to unzip her skirt a little; this was his way of asking permission, so she looked to him and gave him that permission silently.

Would she have done this in her old life? She wanted to think that she would have, that she would have let him feel her up in a vintage convertible parked on the gravel road of a beautiful and rural estate in Maryland, that she could have let her guard down for long enough to let him press his thumb against her sex in the darkness of the Center for the Performing arts during the opera, but she knew that her true self back then would have kept those as merely fantasies, the kind tucked away in drawers with her vibrators, the kind she would write in journals filled with nameless men and women whose faces blurred in her mind. Was her life one of luxury if a significant number of her loves were theoretical? In the past she had liked traveling alone, but had she come here without him, she would have stayed in the apartment, sitting on the balcony and watching boats pass by, never boarding any of the gondolas herself. And though she found herself missing the safety of her old life, the sanctity, the way she complied with all parts of her world, she felt him tug down against the teeth of her zipper and thought, _this is far superior. This is what I once dreamed of. This is the freedom I’ve sought out for so long._

And he was so gentle, the lightest of touches making her flinch, featherweight pressure; she pressed her knees together, looked away from him in hope that none of the passersby would notice where his hand was. The Venetian architecture, white and gold buildings contrasted by azure waters, the bob of the sea, his wrist moved with the ebb and flow of the water, and she braced herself against the seat of the boat, tried to ground herself. When water taxis passed by them, he would move his index finger in a swift circle, a change in pace to account for the rocking of the boat; as her toes curled inside of the wretched Ferragamo heels, she wondered if he’d packed them for her on purpose, had imagined this scene while they were still in Florence. And she wanted to bring her hands to his neck and choke him, the veins of her hands prominent with force, for this was the perfect scene, straight out of one of her notebooks, tourists walking overhead, French spoken awkwardly in search of directions, the scents of restaurants preparing for dinner, women posing for glorified social media pictures. Exhaling, she tried to capture the feeling of his hand against her, the scent of the sea, the rocking of the boat, the look of the lines of laundry hanging between buildings and over canals, but as she tried to hone in the feeling, he would move his fingers faster and then slow them again, the sensation agonizing in the most delicate way, languid teasing. If she could, she would reach down and grip his wrist tightly, demand more of him, but she couldn’t do so, not without showing all those around them what he was doing. Maybe he’d imagined this part too.

When the gondolier brought them beneath a bridge, when their bodies were cast in strange momentary darkness, he sped up, the movements using his whole wrist, and she could feel then how slick she was, sighed with the sensation, wished she had thought to keep new underwear in her purse but at the same time didn’t care if she ruined this pair at all, for she could picture him at dinner, his same two fingers holding his fork, two fingers that had just been slick with her, two fingers that if they were alone she would make him bring to his lips and suck while she kissed his thumb, his wrist, his palm in one, two, three places. But then they were out from underneath the bridge, and he returned to his slow, gentle pace, and her chest felt heavy, and she knew that he wanted her to beg, but she refused to beg, not now, not like this. She wasn’t a desperate woman, wasn’t a woman who tottered in her heels and wasn’t a woman who minded her own handbag while accompanied by the man who posed as her husband; no, she was a woman who had a reservation for fine dining tonight, who could regret an expensive shoe purchase simply because the shoes weren’t comfortable, who let her fantasies rise out of her journals and come into the real world. She wouldn’t beg. She refused to beg.

And he slowed to the point that her thighs spasmed enough to bring a sinister smile to his lips, and she hated him, she wished he could have crashed on the highway while going 140 and passing on the inside, when they returned to Florence she swore she would report him to the authorities herself, or she would taunt him in a way that would bother him more, let his next target go mysteriously missing, rotting in the streets, found days after his death and with an unsalvageable body. He couldn’t overpower her, but he slowed to stillness, making her wonder if he might try nonetheless.

“Don’t,” she huffed, a threat.  But he was still, looking away from her, suddenly interested in the Venetian architecture, the basilicas, the other tourists in Venice. 

“I thought we might attend the opera tomorrow,” he said aimlessly, and she wondered how deep the water around them was. 

They neared another bridge, and he showed no signs of moving, so she sighed, waited until they were beneath that moment of darkness again before she slipped her own hand beneath his jacket, beneath the waist of her skirt, and pushed his hand out of the way, refusing to beg. And when they were cast in light again, he looked to her with wide eyes - this wasn’t how his imagining had gone - and he reached for her fingers, closing his own around them, asking her to stop; she locked her eyes on his, the details of a contract given her in gaze, his signature coming in a single nod. Looking around them, she made sure they weren’t being watched, then slipped her hand away, let him return to his slow circles, relaxed with the touch, her body slackening against the seat of the boat. 

And as he picked up his speed, adhering to their contract, she didn’t want to think about the canals anymore, didn’t care about the basilicas or the Doge’s Palace or St. Mark’s Square or any part of this city, not the restaurant in which they would share dinner, not their luxurious apartment with its balcony and views and not the way he ornately folded her clothes in her suitcase, silks so carefully placed in her bag, lingerie and slips for the evenings and a beautiful Valentino mini dress for the opera. If they were in Baltimore, she would want the same thing: for his fingers to continue gaining speed, gentle and airy touches gaining pressure, her chest rising and falling with in a way that she would never be able to hide. Why was it that she could be so quiet on her own but lose control whenever it was the hands of another against her? Closing her eyes, she tried to calm her body, tried to clear her visage of the pleasure, but it was no use, not as he rolled his wrist and sped up more. She pressed her knees together, then buried her face against his shoulder, trying to stay quiet. Any onlooker would think this was merely a romantic moment shared by two, a cuddle of sorts. If they weren’t already wearing rings, maybe he would have been bland and proposed to her in one of these boats.

And the orgasm made her toes curl, her vision dark as she forced her eyes shut, her body tense against his, and he slowed his pace but made her twitch with every last circle of his fingers, warm and gentle; she took a deep breath and held it for a moment, in the habit of expecting more than one but knowing she would have to wait until after dinner. It would be so easy to unbutton his pants, to reach down beneath...but he was zipping her skirt, and in a matter of moments, he would be giving their gondolier a generous tip, and he would whisk her away to dinner while she reeled in the aftermath. Thanking the gondolier in Italian, he took her handbag and started helping her out of the boat, her knees weaker than they had been when they boarded, that same sinister smile coming to his lips as she half-stumbled.

And when he took her hand in his, she found that his fingers were still slick.


End file.
